Paper Doll
by Driffta
Summary: Haven't you ever wanted to dress John Watson up like your own personal paper doll? Sherlock has. He's been fantasizing about it for weeks now, and he finally has the opportunity after slicing up John's jumper during a heated shag. Established Relationship


**Author's Notes:** Okay, this was a lot of fun. Both Calabash and I just want to dress up the boys like paper dolls… *drools* Augh! Shake it off, Driffta! Okay, ahem, anyway…. We both LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. Burberry clothing. Seriously. The clothes are deadly sexy and incredibly expensive. Yeah, um, anyway. As always, the illustrious Calabash is writing the part of our ever sexy John Watson and I strive to meet her talents with my own, somewhat paltry version of Sherlock.

**Warnings: ** Let me see... what do all of Calabash and my fics have? Oh, that's right: Language, violence, shagging, John being a totally HOT badass. Yeah, the usual.

**Disclaimers: **Dear God, please, please, please, please let us own Sherlock BBC and the actors that play their parts so _very_ well. No?_ Damn._ Oh well, I guess we'll just have to continue on writing these little PWPs to ease the pain.

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><p>Sherlock's feet were moving. It was the first thing John was aware of most mornings, and this morning, like any other, the restless wandering of those pale, smooth feet was the first source of annoyance in John Watson's mind. He stirred from a heavy sleep, sighing a little in irritation. Sherlock's feet were pressed against his own, moving rhythmically, toes flexing, and John pried open one eye to glare down at the blankets. He could see them beneath, kneading his own. John glanced at the clock blearily. 7:30. For a moment, he had a panicked urge to kick off the blankets and bolt for the shower, for fresh clothes and aftershave, and to board the tube to work. But Sherlock let out a soft snore, and John let his head rest back on the pillow, his pulse slowing. It was Saturday. He smiled gently, turning to gaze at his tall, slumbering lover. Sherlock was lovely when he slept. His aquiline face was unlined, and beautifully formed. His thick lips were parted and dry, letting out whispery snores and moans, and John shifted, swallowing. A low throb echoed in his bones, a reminder of the previous night's activities, and he grinned.<p>

Sherlock flopped in his sleep, and John exhaled. He would not be going back to sleep this morning. He swung his legs out of bed carefully, tugging the blankets up around Sherlock's thin frame. Sherlock got cold at night. He hadn't any meat on his bones after all. He had told John on more than one occasion that, even were they not lovers, he would have enjoyed the older man's presence in his bed. John was warm blooded, and Sherlock took full advantage. Many nights, John woke up to find that lanky body draped over his own, Sherlock clinging to him for his body heat, and John liked this. Liked it very much. He shuffled out to the loo for a quick shower.

A half hour later, John stood in his dressing gown in the kitchen, pouring a cup of tea. He retreated back to their bedroom, inordinately pleased with himself. Sherlock was still sleeping. John peered down at him, his eyes full of affection. He had been over worked lately. John set the tea down on the side table, crawling back up into bed, and he leaned over his lover. "Morning, Sherlock," he sang softly, trailing a hand through a mass of dark, tangled curls.

Sherlock shifted about, mewling in his sleep. Somewhere in his deep sociopathic dream he felt John move, felt the hand running through his hair, heard the soothing words. Sherlock cracked an eye open and smiled sleepily. 'Good morning.' He mumbled blearily, burying his face in a pillow, and throwing an arm about John's waist. 'What time is it?' Sherlock liked these mornings. He was so used to waking up cold and alone in the big bed with only a text to comfort him that Saturday mornings were a treat, having John there to kiss him awake, to snuggle up against. Weekends were something Sherlock looked forward to the most. He loved waking up to John. Sherlock roused himself just enough to worm his way a little closer to his lover and rest his head upon John's smooth chest.

"About eight." John shifted so that Sherlock's body was nestled comfortably in the crook of his arm, that soft head of hair reclining on his chest. He shivered a bit as a blast of warm breath ghosted across his breast. "Cuppa?"

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning. 'Yes please.' He sighed, stretching a bit before leaning over to plant a kiss on John's lips.

John let his eyes flutter shut as Sherlock kissed him, a swift, familiar thing, but always to John, something unbelievable and incredible. He smiled, stormy eyes twinkling. "Here." He slid the saucer and tea cup onto his lap. "How'd you sleep?" As if he didn't know. As if he hadn't woken three times in the night, just to blink over at him, touch his face... make sure he was really, truly there. John wondered if he would ever be able to truly believe he had Sherlock back. Perhaps not. Perhaps this joy and fear and shock would always remain. Part of John hoped so. He cherished the fierce rush of adrenalin every time he woke up, and saw Sherlock sleeping next to him.

Sherlock smiled again and accepted the cup, taking a grateful sip. 'That's wonderful.' He let out another yawn. 'I slept well,' Sherlock looked into his cup and shifted about, 'I always sleep when you're here... especially on Friday nights.' Sherlock took another sip. Of course he slept better. He used to wake up at all hours and put his arms around John, just to make sure he was there. Now, if he woke up during the middle of the night, sweating and panting, his heart racing and his mind screaming, all he would have to do is reach an arm out to feel John, and then he could fall asleep all over again. It was nice knowing that his lover was there giving Sherlock the heat and comfort of his small body. Oh yes, Sherlock loved that very, very much.

"Good." John pressed his lips together, leaning back against the mountain of pillows, and he traced his fingertips up Sherlock's spine. It was beautiful and alien, the way the ridges protruded from beneath white skin. He nudged Sherlock's calf with his toes. "I slept well, too. I always do, after..." He halted, stifling a nervous laugh. He always slept well after Sherlock shagged him into the mattress. And he had the night before. Vigorously.

Sherlock grinned and set his cup down for a moment, swooping down on John and kissing him, engulfing his body with long arms that held him close. 'Shagging is better than drugs for sleeping.' He mumbled into John's chest, pressing light kisses to the tanned skin and sighing contentedly. 'Just being able to sleep next to you is better... you're so warm.' He pressed his ear against John's breast and listened to the heart beating slowly and steadily. This heart was his. 'You help me sleep. You're my sleep medication.' He smiled sheepishly. He was still groggy and spouting off silly nonsense. It was odd to feel this happy, this content. Sherlock wasn't sure if he would ever get used to it, wasn't sure if he even wanted to try.

John snorted, but there was great fondness in it. "You're a git," he said softly, ruffling his hair. But he did not move. He wanted Sherlock here, like this. They had precious little time together, quiet and sweet. There was always work. Lestrade. Mycroft. Someone or something always came stomping in, invading their privacy, breaking up their tender moments. John sighed. He brought his lover's body closer, and leaned down to dance his lips over Sherlock's ear. "You're off that case now, aren't you?"

Sherlock shivered as John's breath hit his ear. He rolled his eyes over to look up at John. 'Yes, no more cases. Not today. Just this, all day.' Sherlock tightened his grip a little and closed his eyes. 'Just you all day.' He opened them and rolled over on his back, his head still resting on John's chest. 'Unless you've been called into work?' He blinked a few times, hoping that John would be here for the rest of the day. Sherlock hated it when John was called in over the weekend for some reason or another. He always wanted to make the doctor stay and be with him, but he didn't. He acted mature. And if he shagged John a little harder when he got back from those unexpected calls, well, Sherlock couldn't be blamed for that. Not really, anyway. 'You don't, do you?'

John shrugged, shooting him a smirking, mischievous look. "It's odd," he said loftily, eyeing his mobile on the bedside table. "For some reason, my phone is acting up this morning. Can't seem to take any calls." He tightened his grip on the young man's shoulders, and flushed as Sherlock's nose brushed his dressing gown aside, just enough for him to nuzzle one rosy nipple.

Sherlock licked John's nipple, tracing around it lightly before capturing it in his mouth and sucking gently. 'That's convenient.' he murmured against John's skin. 'I told Lestrade not to bother me this weekend. Any important case he might have can wait for a day or two...' Sherlock's fingers trailed down John's legs, slipping underneath the dressing gown and massaging the muscular appendage. He licked down John's stomach, dipping his tongue in the bellybutton before raining kisses on his lover's abdomen. Sherlock looked questioningly up at John as he started untying the robe, asking if it was alright. If John was up to some fun.

John was panting already. He watched with morbid fascination as his body responded enthusiastically to Sherlock's attentions, and his head fell back as that hot mouth began sucking on his hard nipple. Fuck. Fuck, this man drove him mad. He let his legs fall apart as Sherlock's hand quested inside, and when the detective began nibbling on his stomach, his fingers fumbling at the belt of John's robe, he had to bite back a loud groan. "Yes," he whispered fiercely, nodding and settling back on the bed, his thighs wide. Damn it. He was too easy for Sherlock.

'Hmmmmm,' Sherlock hummed, crawling over John and settling between his legs. The detective pushed back a lock of hair that fell over his eyes. He did not want to have his vision impaired, not when he was about to view one of the most glorious sights in existence; John's hard cock. He lifted the gown away from John's crotch, uncovering the semi-hard shaft. Sherlock let out a satisfied sigh and licked his lips. He glanced up at John before grasping the base of his lover's cock and giving it a gentle pump. Sherlock tentatively licked the head, pressing a kiss to it before flicking his tongue down the underside and back up. 'You're beautiful, John,' he moaned against the quickly hardening flesh. 'So fucking beautiful.'

John wished he could reply... wished he could say that, no, no, Sherlock had no fucking clue what beautiful was. Beautiful was mussed, dark, curly hair that scraped hollow cheeks. Beautiful was bright, shining, metallic eyes that pierced your very soul. Beautiful was long, gangly limbs and a mouth that would shame a cherub for its thick sweetness. He wanted to say these things. He could not. John gasped and arched on the mattress, fingers digging into the sheets, and he bucked up into Sherlock's hand and mouth, whimpering. His cock ached, throbbed against Sherlock's rough tongue, and he thrashed, letting the dressing gown fall open completely, baring him to his lover's intense eyes. He knew what was coming, and his legs widened even further in anticipation. Shit. John was such a whore for him. He grinned at the thought, and thrust up again, wriggling his arse on the way down, pleading. He wanted Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock returned John's grin and bit down lightly on his cock before reaching over to John's side of the bed and pulling out a drawer. They always kept lube on both sides of the bed. It was just easier that way. Sherlock retracted his arm once he found the half empty bottle. Pouring a good deal of the contents on his fingers, Sherlock got to his knees and kissed John's lips as he pressed two fingers to the twitching hole. 'You're so eager for it,' he moaned, his own body reacting to John's noises, to his arches and whines. He pushed the two fingers in a little farther and began scissoring them around. Sherlock's other hand lazily kept stroking John's rock hard cock. The sleuth kissed John's jaw, then licked the sensitive part right underneath his ear, sucking and biting. Sherlock moaned into John's neck. This was perfect.

John cried out, biting his lip hard to muffle the sound as Sherlock lavished attention on his weak spot. His lover knew him well. John could be angry.. cold... completely turned off, and if Sherlock began to lick that one place on his neck, he would be hot and ready to fuck in three seconds flat. Sherlock had used this against him many times. John still couldn't bring himself to care. Two long, slender fingers were sliding in and out of him, stretching, teasing, and he grunted, tossing his head to the side to give Sherlock more room. John began to roll, gently impaling his own body on the intrusion, and then it was a rocking motion, harder, deeper. As a third finger joined the others, a searing burn rose in his thighs, and John choked, hissing out, "YESSSSSSSS..." The pain warmed him, brought his senses to sharp focus, and he began to claw at Sherlock's back, still nude from the previous night's shagging. John drove himself down, fucking himself on Sherlock's wicked fingers. "Fuck... FUCK yes! Hurry, hurry..." He couldn't wait. He needed to get plowed. Sherlock's cock would be nice, but at this point, hell, he'd take whatever was in reach.

Sherlock continued to suck John's weak spot, giving him a love bite. Sherlock liked giving John love bites, especially in the more visible areas of his lover's body. 'Hnnnn, you're so fucking beautiful.' He whispered against John's neck. His John was the most perfect thing in existence. Sherlock was sure of that. Sherlock loved the way John said his name, he loved the way John got so impatient for Sherlock's cock that he'd begin fucking himself on Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock loved the way his eyes got all glassy when Sherlock licked his nipples; he loved the way his couldn't hold his voice back when his cock was attacked. Sherlock loved how vocal he could make John. The detective lowered his head and took a nipple in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, chuckling as John lifted an arm to his mouth, trying to supress the loud groan. Pulling his three fingers out, Sherlock flipped John around. 'On your hands and knees,' he whispered into his lover's ear. 'Hurry up.'

John scrambled. Fuck yes. _FUCK_ yes. He was shaking in anticipation, whimpering impatiently, uncontrollably. When he and Sherlock made love, as they'd done the night before, John was always on his back. On his back with his legs spread wide, Sherlock holding his ankles while they drove against one another. John knew why. It was eye contact. Sherlock's eyes locked onto his while they made love, and that moment where they were both ascending, spiraling, hot and gasping and desperate... well there was nothing more sensual and delicious as watching the one you loved fall off of that cliff into ecstasy and madness. But... John dropped onto the bed, arse in the air, on his elbow, his face buried flat in a pillow. Behind him, he could feel Sherlock line up, could feel his hands tight on his hips. John's cock was dripping. This wasn't making love. This was fucking. This was animalistic need, a snarling, primal, debaucherous need to be fucked so hard the world melted away. He wiggled, offering his body up, begging silently to be taken hard and fast. His toes curled. Out of the corner of his eye, John caught a glimpse of the nightstand drawer, ajar. The riding crop was in there. The toys were in there. Lube. Handcuffs. Other things that they hadn't even tried yet. He chewed on his lip, moaning. After all was said and done... nothing would be as good as Sherlock's cock, abusing his hole over and over and over... "Give it to me," he growled, a tremor in his pleading voice. "Please... please Sherlock, give me your cock. Please fuck me."

Sherlock stared at John's back, his heart beating quickly. It wasn't often, if ever, he saw this view. They always, always looked into each other's eyes. Sherlock liked that best. He knew that John wanted him, that John needed him, that John loved him. Despite that knowledge he needed that reassurance, even after they'd been together for so long. It was all his insecurities coming into play. Sherlock would never stop worrying that John would suddenly not want to be with him. That one day John would wake up and wonder what the hell he was doing with this sociopathic nightmare. But _oh_, John's back was beautiful. The faint marks of Sherlock's nails were still engraved on his tanned skin; there were love bites, old scars, the remnants of a welt that Sherlock had left last time they'd brought out the riding crop. Sherlock knew he ought to feel guilty for hurting his beloved soldier, he knew he should feel remorse every single time he marked his doctor, yet he never could. He could only find pride in those sharp marks. Sherlock rolled his head back and moaned. John wanted it badly; he was rocking back against Sherlock's hard cock, trying to get as much friction, as much contact as was humanly possible. Sherlock slapped his arse and chuckled. 'You little slut.' He purred, running a finger up John's spine, loving the tremor that coursed through John's body. Without wasting another second, Sherlock drove his cock into John. Not bothering to wait for the doctor to get used to his length, Sherlock slid out and rammed back in, over and over. 'Ohhhh, fuuuck,' He hissed through his teeth. John felt so very good.

John howled, not bothering to muffle it anymore. How could he think of such inconsequentialities when Sherlock Holmes was splitting him open with his bloody fucking long engorged wicked cock? John writhed, his hands immediately flying to his own erection and stroking it roughly. This shoved his face down into the bed even harder, and he whimpered at the humility, the submission of the pose. He was indeed Sherlock's slut, and fuck, everybody knew it. His mind drifted swiftly to the crime scene two weeks ago, when Sherlock had discovered an empty bedroom, void of evidence... _Anything important_, he'd said... and they'd fucked hard on the bed, John screaming into Sherlock's wool coat, his jeans bunched at his knees as Sherlock took him, forcefully. Almost too forcefully. John had been obligated to explain why he had a bright red mark on his cheek immediately after. How was he supposed to tell them it was the mark of Sherlock's palm, pressing him down so hard it hurt? How was he supposed to tell them he'd liked it? Oh, _hell yes_, he'd liked it. He _liked_ getting shoved down and fucked. He loved going to a crime scene and finding himself with his arse in the air, naked, getting pounded while the entire police force wondered where the hell the Freak and his Assistant had gone off to. John jolted as Sherlock drove in deeper, and he gasped, letting out another shrill cry. "HARDER! OHHH FUCK! Hn..Sh.. SHIT... Shit, shit Sherlockkkk! FUCK ME! OHHHH!"

A laugh ripped out of Sherlock's throat, a wild, primal, crowing laugher, he couldn't help it. John was so good, so fucking good. Sherlock loved to hear him scream, loved to make him screech. Sherlock loved it when he took him in public places, loved it when John had to try to be silent. Oh yes, Sherlock always did his best to make John feel like urge to scream at the top of his lungs when they fucked in a bathroom or at a crime scene or in an alley. He loved the way John's eyes watered as he tried to keep silent, the way he would bite down on Sherlock's shoulder or arm. In the end he almost always lost. John couldn't help but vocalize his pleasure. And that was what Sherlock loved the most. He picked up speed, slapping against John's arse faster and faster, each thrust was harder than the next until all that could be heard was the sounds of sex. The wet noise of his cock slipping in and out, the crass sound of skin hitting skin, the loud moans and desperate whines of John, and Sherlock's own vocals. Sherlock could keep silent if he needed to; he was a master of his own body, but most of the time he never tried. He knew John liked to hear him. He knew John liked it when he snarled in his ear, when he insulted him, when he shouted profanities, when he told him he loved him. 'OH FUCK. Johnnn, ohhh, you're so fucking tight, so hot, so.. hnnnnnnnnnngghhhh... goood!'

"Yesss.." John was hissing, sobbing, thrashing below his lover. The sounds Sherlock made were settling directly in his cock, and as he stroked it frantically, he tried in desperation to slam himself back on Sherlock, fast. He angled his body, twisting so that the curve of Sherlock's dick slid in deep, _ohhhh, so deep_! John screamed, his head tossing on the bed, his neck and jaw aching and sore from the odd angle. He didn't fucking care. "YES! Shit! Sherlock, you're... y... Haaahhh... AAAAHH!" John's power of speech was lost as his prostate exploded in a great blast of pleasure and pain. Gooseflesh ran all over his tanned flesh, and John began to shriek, an honest to goodness scream that hurt even his own ears. But he could not stop. Sherlock did not stop either. If anything, between the screams, John could hear his lover rumbling passionate, empty words as he increased his tempo, increased his power, and fucked John as if they would never fuck again. John collapsed, letting his shoulders roll onto the mattress, his arse still high and getting rammed with violent precision. "P..Please," John wept, giving himself over to the sensations that rocked his sturdy body. His screeches dissolved into pathetic whispers. "Please, Sherlock... Please... don't stop.. don't ever stop." He clenched the pillow in his fist, bringing it to his lips, and John bit into it hard, vainly trying to stifle himself.

Sherlock slid a hand underneath John, running along his chest, up his neck until he reached John's lips. 'Don't,' he groaned, slamming as hard as he could into John's tight arse. His fingers traced John's lower lip before lifting and setting back on John's hips. 'Don't ever muffle yourself... haaaaaaa... don't q...quiet yourself, John, let it out.' Sherlock could feel the orgasm coming up, that familiar twisting, that rush of energy and heat. He moaned, using his hands to help John slide against him, making John slam against him even harder.

John wavered for but a brief moment before obeying his lover. How could he not? He flushed crimson to the roots of his hair, and lifted his head as Sherlock somehow, impossibly, began to fuck his sore, stretched pucker _harder. Faster. Deeper_. "UUHHHH! SHERRRLOOOCKK!" John screamed, letting loose, a part of him rejoicing in the exhibitionism, and he bucked up, shoving himself backwards and knocking Sherlock to his arse on the bed. John landed atop him, his back to Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's cock still buried deep inside. John moaned loudly, his thighs heating as he began to bob up and down, like a jack in the box, on his lap. "FUCK! Fuck yes! YESS! Fuck me, fuck me, give that big fat cock to me, Sherlock!" John babbled, his hands reaching back to grab his face, his hair, whatever he could touch as he rode him backwards, his legs spread. "FUCK! Mmmm, Come on, Sherlock, touch me, feel me all over, make me your slut, COME ONNN!" John was so fucking dirty. He fucking loved it.

John's nails bit into Sherlock's neck and he let out a hiss of pain, 'Fuuuuuuuuuuck!' He bucked into John's arse, it was a little harder in this position, but Sherlock liked hard. His hands shot out and began roaming John's body, twisting his lover's nipples viciously, relishing the gasp it produced. Sherlock found John's cock and began stroking it, pinching and pulling at it. 'OH FUCK. You want to be my bitch, don't you? You like it, you think it's so fucking good, don't you?' he closed his eyes as John's hands found his chest and began making little rivulets in Sherlock's skin. 'Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. So hot, so good, ohhh, my little slut is better than anyone else. You are... SHIT... fucking perfect!' He cried out as John pulled himself almost completely off of Sherlock before ramming back down and letting out a shriek of pleasure. That was it. Sherlock could feel himself beginning to cum. 'OH FUCK! John, I'm cumming, fuck. Fuck! You bloody bastard! COME ON! Fuck yourself HARDER on my cock!' Sherlock screamed out, letting the passion overtake him as he shot deep inside John. He didn't really give a fuck who heard him now. This was too good to keep quiet.

John started shrieking again, pulling all the way out and ramming back down, his head flailing, his body pulsing with pleasure, his fingers bruising pale skin. He couldn't breathe. Sherlock's cock tore into him as the tall detective lurched up unmercifully and forced him back down, fucking him so hard John knew he wouldn't be able to get plowed again for a day or two. He had to make this worth it. John felt him orgasm, felt him stiffen and groan, and he snarled, bouncing up and down as fast as he could, his own climax pounding an unsteady, mind-blowing beat against his skull. "YES YES YES! It's so fucking GOOOD!" he shouted to the air, pitching and struggling as he felt Sherlock's hand tighten around his balls, giving them a vicious tug, and then he was cumming as well, grinding his arse down like a fucking whore, shooting his load of white cum all over the bed, all over their linens and blankets and pillows. "SHEEEERLOCK! HNNNGHHHH! Fuck fuck fuck... I'm such..." Gasp.. "A fucking..." Sob, and another pulse of hot semen.. "slag for you!" John ground down, over and over, long after his cock stopped firing off, and he twisted, pathetic and whimpering, seeking Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock lifted his arms, pulling John down into a sweet kiss, gently nudging the soldier's tongue with his own. 'Yes,' he murmured against John's lips, 'but you're _my _slag, and I love you.' Sherlock slid his hands down until they reached around his lover's waist. 'I love you so very much.' He lifted John off him, settling his lover so that he was lying on Sherlock's chest, gasping for breath. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of John's head. 'Fuck, I think that was the best morning sex we've had yet.' He let out a puff of air and closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips, his whole body still reverberating from the morning's activities. 'Fucking brilliant.' He yawned and hugged his soldier. 'Would you like to get breakfast?'

John took a moment to find his breath. He was fucking sore. He_... oh fuck_. He glanced down at himself, and colored brightly. "Yeah, that sounds.. good," he mumbled, shifting around to roll off of Sherlock. His fingers searched for his dressing gown, his cheeks deep crimson. "Breakfast sounds perfect. Maybe a little shopping. I need a new jumper. You sliced through my best one with your bloody knife." John tugged his arms through the sleeves, crawling to the edge of the bed. Maybe he could make a hasty escape.

Sherlock eyed John suspiciously, something was up. John _never_ put his dressing gown on after they'd shagged. _Ever._ He knew Sherlock preferred him to be naked, he knew that Sherlock liked watching him move around in the nude. The detective's arms snaked out and he grabbed John around the waist once more, crawling up beside him and kissing his neck. 'What are you hiding?' He nuzzled the back of John's neck, his nose brushing into the hairline. 'Hmmmm? Why so eager to get away?' Sherlock's hands drifted lower until... _oh... _Sherlock grinned against the back of John's neck. _Oh._

John moaned in the back of his throat, and he sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I... fuck..." He turned back to Sherlock, winding his arms around his neck sheepishly. "I can't explain it. This happens all the bloody time. You make me..." John searched for the proper words. "I don't know how to stop wanting you," he whispered at last.

Sherlock giggled and turned John around, pushing the damn gown from his shoulders. 'Well, I'll tell you what. I'm going to give you three options.' He inclined his head, a wicked gleam in his eyes. 'Since I just shagged your poor little arse as hard as it could take, I'll let you choose...' Sherlock trailed a finger down John's chest, 'either you can toss off right here in front of me,' he stopped right before he reached John's cock and bypassed it, heading for the sensitive skin of John's inner thighs. 'Or I can suck you off, or...' he glanced up at John and licked his lips, 'or... you can fuck me.'

John trembled. It was no contest. He would fuck Sherlock anytime, anyplace, anyway he could. But... "Sherlock..." John took a deep breath in, held it, and let it out with a gush. "I can't," he said, and shook his head vehemently at Sherlock's upraised brow. "I mean, I can't right NOW. I'm... My body can barely stand up." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and John placed a finger on his swollen lips. "BUT... I will later. Give me a couple hours. We'll have breakfast, do some shopping, and then..." John leaned down, brushing a light kiss over his mouth. "Then I'll fuck you 'til you cry."

Sherlock pouted a little. 'Well fine. That option is out. Which other?' He crossed his arms and looked petulantly at John. He'd been rather enticed with the thought of being fucked right here and now, but, well, he understood. It had been _very_ vigorous.

John laughed, and turned to march towards the door, tossing a grin over his shoulder. "Later. Don't wear me out. I'm not as young as you."

'Fuck.' Sherlock snapped, turning around and punching a pillow angrily. He knew when he'd lost, and he had most definitely lost here.

"Don't sulk!" John's voice drifted to him from the loo. "If you hurry, you can catch a shower before I use up all the hot tap!"

Sherlock was on his feet in a second and running after John. 'Wait! What if I wanted to shower with you?' He demanded, skirting a corner and stopping in the doorway. 'Or...' he looked guiltily down at his naked toes, 'I shouldn't wear you out.' he let out a gusty sigh and wiggled his toes before nodding. 'Okay,' he looked up and flashed John a grin, 'don't be too long.'

John winked at him, and gestured. He'd let Sherlock have the shower. Hell. He'd let Sherlock have everything. He watched him beam, watched his childish expressions grow pleased as he darted into the shower. John stood at the sink, cleaning himself off with a soft cloth. His chest, his arms, his thighs... John blushed a little. He watched Sherlock's shadow behind the curtain in the mirror, and John smiled softly to himself. Oh yes. Give him a couple of hours.

He'd make him cry.

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock were sitting at a round glass table outside a small cafe. They came here every so often, when they didn't have anything to do, when they just wanted to sit together in peace and watch the people walking by. To pass the time John would point someone out to Sherlock and the detective would tell him exactly what they did for a living, where they were going, and why. Today they were just content to sit in silence and soak up the warmth. The weather was cooperating, sun bathed the ground giving everything it touched a warm glow. Nearby shrubs and flowers waved happily in the slight breeze. It was the perfect day. Sherlock looked up at John from his nearly empty cup of coffee. He smiled a little and took a sip. That morning had been brilliant and the day was only looking up. Neither John nor he would allow any distraction today. Today was all about them. Sherlock let out a soft sigh and leaned back in his chair. They were going shopping a little later. Sherlock had plans. He was going to drag John around all over the place picking out clothes for him and dressing him up like John was his own little toy soldier. 'I need a new shirt.' He set his cup down and wrinkled his nose slightly. 'You tore all the buttons off my favourite one last night.'<p>

John glanced up from his breakfast. He scowled disapprovingly at Sherlock's coffee cup, the light breeze ruffling his sandy blonde hair, tickling his forehead. Sherlock should have eaten something. He used to pester him about it when they went to restaurants, cafes, small inns... John always ended up with a large plate of food which he'd devour with relish, and Sherlock... would have coffee. No wonder the man was so damned thin. But John gave up on forcing him a long time ago, and instead used more subtle methods. He cocked his head, sliding a fork full of quiche into his mouth, moaning a little at the rich flavor and flaky crust. It really was an excellent dish. "I tore YOURS off?" he chuckled with his mouth full. "As I recall, you owe me a new jumper, Sherlock. Or did you forget?" John made a scissoring motion with his fingers, grinning suggestively and ducking as a waitress flounced by. He took another bite, pink lips dragging along the fork, well aware of Sherlock's scrutiny. "But I don't see why we can't get both."

Flashing him a crooked grin, Sherlock picked the spoon out of his coffee and stuck it in the quiche. Carving out a small spoonful, he brought it to his nose and sniffed. Goat cheese and spinach. He cautiously took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. It was very good. Sherlock swallowed and took another sip of coffee. 'I never liked that jumper anyway.' He shifted out of the way as John reached out to whack his shoulder. 'Careful.' He admonished, his lips quirking into yet another smile. Sherlock liked these simple moments more than he cared to admit.

John snorted, but smiled broadly into his coffee. Sherlock nudged his foot under the table, and he slurped a bit as he tried not to laugh. "That was my best jumper," he muttered, taking another very small bite and ever so slightly pushing the plate closer to his companion. Sherlock absent mindedly dug another spoonful out, chewing on it methodically, and John smirked. He leaned back in his chair, yawning. "Hmm. Nice day. Think I'll have a nap when we get back." He raised his hand for the check, watching with subdued triumph as Sherlock polished off the quiche. "Where do you buy your shirts?" he asked curiously. John had never seen Sherlock wear anything out of the flat that wasn't impeccable. Now that he thought about it, he was wildly curious. Where did Sherlock Holmes do his fashion shopping?

'You'll have to wait and see.' Sherlock drained his coffee then pushed the chair back and stood up, stretching slightly. 'Don't take too long. I'll be around the corner.' He turned on his heel and stalked off, his hands in the pockets of his pants. It was much too warm for his woolen coat, which was a pity. Sherlock liked cold weather best. Not only did he get to sweep around in his striking coat, but it also gave him an excuse to snuggle up to John without raising any comments or betraying his love of cuddles. No one would ever expect Sherlock Holmes to be a snuggler, and he wanted to keep it that way. As soon as he was around the corner he took out a cigarette from an inside breast pocket of his jacket and looked behind him. John was nowhere to be seen. Perfect. Sherlock lit the fag and inhaled. _Perfect._

John gaped after him, rolling his eyes as the waitress brought the check. Lovely. Fucking perfect. He sighed, pulling out his card and handing it to her with resignation. Sherlock had more money than he knew what to do with. Literally. It sat there and accumulated, and the man never bought anything for himself but clothes and shoes and his share of the bills. John, on the other hand, worked damned hard and got paid far less, and always seemed to be picking up milk, and the shopping, and cab fares, and coffee. He scribbled his signature, pushed back from the table, and slid his wallet back in his trousers as he walked. At least Sherlock ate something.

Sherlock could hear John huffing under his breath and quickly dropped the cigarette to the ground, stubbing out with the toe of his ridiculously expensive shoes. He turned around and leaned against the building wall as John rounded the corner and sniffed suspiciously. Sherlock smiled innocently. 'Ready?' He asked.

John stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. "You found them."

'Of course I found them. They were in one of your socks, John.' Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets once more. He had been good. Sherlock hadn't smoked in three months. 'Come on,' he inclined his head to the pavement and twitched his nose.

John stood riveted on the spot, his fingers twitching by his sides. "But you promised," he said lowly, and his cheeks colored. He swallowed hard. The weight in his back pocket from his wallet seemed suddenly heavier, and he frowned, the lines in his brow deepening. He'd paid the tab for breakfast... so Sherlock could sneak off for a fag. And he'd promised.

Sherlock shrugged, turning away. 'And I won't have another one.' He glanced back at John and frowned. 'You're angry.'

"Good deduction." John pushed past him, stepping into the street, walking swiftly. There was a Tyrwhitt down the way... he could buy himself a new jumper in there. He'd seen a cable knit one he fancied. It had a nice fold over collar. _Fucking Sherlock_. He clenched his fists a little as he walked. He knew Sherlock was following.

Sherlock caught up to John and grabbed his hand. 'John, I've been good. I have. I swear. This is the first one I've touched.' The detective pulled on John's arm, turning him about. 'I won't do it again.' He said meekly. _Damn_. All he'd wanted was one cigarette to make the day absolutely perfect and he'd cocked up the whole fucking outing. 'I won't.' He unhooked the two buttons on his jacket and pulled it open, showing the inner pocket, devoid of anymore cigarettes. 'See? No more.'

John hesitated on the sidewalk, exhaling through his nose, and he turned his body to his lover's, peering up into those bright, pleading eyes. "Sherlock, tell me something. Do you have any fucking idea why I hide your cigarettes?"

'They're addictive?' Sherlock's lower lip protruded as he frowned thoughtfully. 'Cancer?' He didn't really know, honestly. The main reason why he'd given up was because he simply could not stand that something had such a strong hold over him. He had to prove that _he_ was master.

John managed a small smile. "Look at me." Sherlock's gaze met his, and John caught it, holding it with intensity. "In all the years you've been conducting experiments, Sherlock, have any of your cases ever led you to dissect a smoker's lung? A brown, leathery, diseased human lung? I know you know what it looks like, what all the textbooks say, but have you ever touched one with your own hands?"

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, I've never touched one. Always wanted to. They won't let me near living humans at Bart's anymore.' He glared at the thought. It made his blood boil to think of it, how dare they bar him? He knew more about what was wrong with their patients than the doctors themselves knew and they'd STILL barred him! The idiots. After that _ONE_ time.

John waved his hand in front of his face to capture his attention once more. "Yeah. Well, I have. Medical school, remember? And I will be damned if I let you get that way, Sherlock." John stepped in close, breathing his same air, and he tilted his face up to swiftly brush his lips along that long, sloping neck. "You are the most brilliant man I have ever known, and I love you, you bastard."

Sherlock shivered and let out a sigh, latching an arm around John's waist briefly before stepping back. 'I'll be good,' was the resigned answer, his shoulders slumping. Damn John. He always knew how to get to Sherlock. He looked down at his shoes and slipped his hands in his trouser pockets. 'Still angry?'

"Yes," John quipped, but he grinned up at him, and laughed softly. "Come on. Tyrwitt's is up here." He turned again, marching smartly up the sidewalk, waiting just a moment until he heard Sherlock fall in step beside him. He slowed his pace to match Sherlock's, shoulders brushing, the breeze warm on his face. It really was a marvelous day. "So," John said, clearing his throat. "Shall I get a burgundy jumper, or another beige? I like the beige. But I haven't had a burgundy in a while, and I like the cut."

Sherlock smirked. 'Burgundy.' He wasn't going to let John buy one of these jumpers. Oh no. Sherlock was taking him somewhere else. Sherlock was going to buy him a good jumper. He already had one in mind. Cashmere, button up, deep inky blue. It screamed John's name. 'After this stop we'll need to catch a cab.' He murmured quietly, not looking at John. He knew John was going to protest when he saw the price, when he saw the store, but Sherlock really didn't care. Sherlock would win. He always did.

John nodded, and turned with a smile, tugging on Sherlock's arm as he pulled him into the small department store.

John enjoyed shopping. He really did. It was a rare thing for him, new clothes, and since his lover was paying... there was no way John was letting him out of this one... John took his time, muddling through shirts and blazers and jumpers until he found the one he liked. Sherlock followed, looking bored, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, his expression impatient. John turned to him at last, holding up a deep red pullover with a large collar and three buttons. "Well?" he asked with a grin. It was more than he'd have paid on his own, but... dammit, Sherlock literally cut his other one off of him after handcuffing him to the bed, and then he proceeded to fuck him with a riding crop. John felt as if he was entitled to a nice jumper.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and nodded. 'Very nice.' He wasn't being sarcastic, either. It was a good looking jumper. He was a little surprised. This small department store was somewhere he would have never bothered to step foot in without urging. 'Yes, I do like that. Much better than your other one. I promise I won't slice it up this time.' He grinned cheekily and took it from John's hands, holding it out at arm's length. 'Very well, go on.' He nodded to the men's dressing room, giving the jumper back to John.

John blinked at him. "I don't need to try it on," he stammered, holding it up to his chest. "It will fit." He shifted close to the sales desk, eyeing Sherlock, waiting for him to pull out his card.

'How on earth am I supposed to know if I really like it if you don't wear it first?' He stood still and folded his arms stubbornly. 'Off you go.'

John sighed. He shrugged, shaking his head as he stalked to the dressing room, jumper clutched tightly in his hand. "Fine. I'll try it on." He found the closest empty stall, and ripped his old jumper off as quickly as possible, unreasonably irritated. What did it matter if Sherlock liked the jumper or not, really? He couldn't imagine it would make a bit of difference to the detective what John wore to putter about the flat, or go to work. Sherlock never seemed to notice things like that. When he was in the mood for a shag, he came looking for John, and by that time, it didn't matter if John was wearing a jumper or nothing at all. John glanced at himself in the mirror as he straightened the burgundy jumper. It looked good. He took a deep breath, and pushed out of the stall, folding his arms and standing self-consciously. "There."

Sherlock was standing around, his back to the stall, disinterestedly flicking through a rack of button up cardigans when he heart John grumble behind him. Sherlock turned around and looked his lover up and down appreciatively. 'Suits you,' he licked his lips and nodded. John looked... very nice. The detective cleared his throat and nodded again. '_Very_ nice.' He turned around and fidgeted with the jumpers again, his cheeks heating up. Yes, Sherlock liked it very much.

"Brilliant." John ripped it off of his head, tossing it at Sherlock with a cheeky grin. "Pay up, then. I'll meet you outside." He turned on his heel, ducking back to the dressing room and retrieving his old jumper. He was pleased with himself. He'd found his new one in one go.

Sherlock walked up to the woman behind the register and nodded curtly at her. Once he had that taken care of he joined John outside. 'Well...' he sighed and glanced down at John, 'shall we go?'

John beamed at him. "I'm all yours."

'Excellent.' Sherlock smiled wickedly as he hailed a cab. He didn't speak much during the short ride, staring out the window, deep in thought. He had quite a few things he wanted to have John try on. Sherlock was not going to miss this chance. The cab pulled up outside a huge building with the words Burberry in large black letters. Sherlock grinned. This was one of the several places he chose to shop at when he did not get his clothes tailored. 'Come along, John,' he sang out.

John stared. "You're having me on," he muttered. Of course not. He rolled his eyes as he followed Sherlock, wondering what it would be like to shop at such places so carelessly. He shouldn't have been surprised... Sherlock looked like he belonged on one of the oversized fashion editorials plastered on the walls. John shuffled along behind his well-dressed companion, feeling terribly out of place.

Sherlock walked through the doors and let out a satisfied sigh. He felt much better in this huge oasis of fashion and expense. He looked back at John and held out his hand, 'John,' his eyes twinkled and he smiled at his suddenly shy lover, 'you look gorgeous today.' Sherlock knew John very well and was, despite what John said, very attuned to his companion's moods and feelings. Most of the time. Sherlock was proud to have John around. He did not care what John looked like, but he knew that John did. He knew John was self-conscious about his height and his looks. Sherlock thought John was beautiful no matter what he wore. No matter what he looked like. And Sherlock would always want to hold his hand, to show that John Watson was his lover.

John blushed deeply, tugging his worn jumper a bit closer and wishing he'd worn his new one out of the store. "Ta," he said quietly, but huddled close to Sherlock just the same. A part of him wished he could hang back, perhaps several feet, so as not to appear quite so shabby next to his immaculate flat mate. But he set his jaw, and straightened his shoulders, determined to be as considerate of Sherlock as his lover had been of him. He would brave the fancy store and the expensive clothes and the highbrow staff. John was a soldier. Not a fashion plate. He smiled encouragingly up at Sherlock, tossing his head. "Shirts?"

'Yes, eventually.' Sherlock did not look at John, 'you said you were all mine. Remember?'

"Yes..." John drawled slowly, curious. "I am."

Sherlock snatched John's hand and dragged him along. He knew exactly where he wanted to go.

After a few minutes he found what he was looking for. The jumper. It was perfect, really. It looked comfortable and not the least bit pretentious. He grabbed one up and thrust it at John. 'Hold.' Without looking at John he walked down the row of jumpers and spotted two more. A black and white striped pullover and a ribbed knit oxford blue cardigan. His eyes lit up and he smiled. 'You said I owed you a jumper. And you need a new suit. That grey one of yours is outdated.' He pushed the two other jumpers in John's arms and walked off toward the suits. Sherlock finally found something worth spending money on; John.

John stood where Sherlock left him, his eyes boggling. He chewed on his lower lip, cheeks burning. This... this was the point of the whole bloody trip. Sherlock had duped him. Again. He swallowed hard, trying to will his eyes away from the price tag dangling from one sleeve... but he could not. He had to look. "Sherlock!" he hissed loudly, but his lover was gone. John stood, surrounded by a sea of designer clothes and wealthy shoppers, and his throat was dry. This... this was ridiculous. "Sherlock!" he called softly. Where the HELL had he gone off to? Sherlock's words registered with John, and he blanched. A suit?

Sherlock was in heaven. He'd wanted to do this for years now. John was begging to be dressed up and showed off. He was bloody adorable and Sherlock wanted him to feel like it. He wanted to show John just what he saw in his soldier. Sherlock glanced behind him and saw that John was nowhere to be seen. He rolled his eyes and hurried back to where he had left his lover. 'Hurry UP, John, you're wasting time.' He snickered a little at John's flabbergasted expression. 'Come on.' The detective grabbed John's hand once more and led him to the suits. 'You need a new suit and I saw a few jackets that might look nice. Also trousers. I know you prefer jeans, I saw some that would look nice on you as well, but you need some trousers, too.' He babbled happily. He was going to dress John up and down. Today really was going to be perfect.

John stumbled along, getting redder by the second. "St..Stop," he growled, digging his heels in and grinding to a halt. "Sherlock, I don't need any of this! I just needed a new jumper! You already bought me one, see?" He held up the bag as evidence. "My suit is fine. My jeans and trousers are fine. This is..." _Ridiculous. Absurd. Embarrassing_. John tried to wrench his hand free.

Sherlock turned back and looked at John. 'But you said you were all mine.' He pouted. 'I want to get these for you. I know you...' he trailed off and looked at his shoes. 'You're... special to me.' He mumbled in a voice barely above a whisper. He didn't want John to be unhappy. Sherlock didn't understand the problem. He loved John. He wanted to buy John things. Sherlock had never felt this way about anyone before. And besides, Sherlock was bored. This was supposed to be fun. Why didn't John want him to buy him things? He always complained about getting the milk and paying for the cabs.

John's eyes darted. People were staring. He darted in to murmur in Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock... these things are very expensive. I'm fine with just... just the jumper. You don't have to do this." His eyelashes tickled Sherlock's jaw as he leaned in closer, resisting the urge to press a kiss to his neck. John understood. He knew why Sherlock was doing this. He was being lovely, generous..doting. Sherlock was expressing his affection in one of the only ways he knew how. John loved him for it. "You don't need to do this to show me how you feel. I know." John searched his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up.

Sherlock pouted, stuffing his hands in his pockets petulantly. 'But I want to.' He insisted stubbornly. He wasn't going to give in. 'They're not that expensive. My suit costs two times as much as these things.'

John's eyebrows shot up. "Does it?" he squeaked before he could catch himself. Damn. He'd used those trousers last week to tie Sherlock to the head board. He shook his head, opening his mouth to protest again, but... Sherlock was giving him the look. The hang-dog, sad, childish, sweet, innocent, please-don't-kick-me look that John had never been able to say no to, not once. He closed his mouth again, breathing deeply. He was not going to win this one. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat, and laughed softly at the delight that sprang in Sherlock's eyes. "All right, then. Dress me up."

Sherlock beamed down at him and planted a kiss on John's lips before the shorter man could protest. 'Good. Come on. You'd better give me your opinion,' he chuckled, 'you'll be wearing them after all.'

"I have no opinion!" John called after him as Sherlock scampered with boundless energy ahead. He followed, laughing and keeping his head down as the store patrons eyed him suspiciously.

Sherlock looked back at John and smiled. 'You liar. You damn well have an opinion and you're going to give it to me. Otherwise I'll dress you in pink from head to toe.' Sherlock winked and slowed down enough to let his lover catch up with him. 'Don't think I won't.'

"I know you would," John muttered under his breath, still flushed from the curious eyes of the sales team and their fellow shoppers. Sherlock's antics drew attention wherever they went, but it did not seem as out of place at a crime scene, or in darkened alleys, or seedy districts of London. Here, in the pristine world of hierarchy and easy flowing cash, John was suddenly keenly aware of the odd nature of their relationship. He glanced about as Sherlock dragged him to the men's suits. People were staring. John scuttled along behind the detective, his head lowered. "Just... don't make a fuss," he pleaded. Perhaps if he agreed to everything Sherlock showed him, he could make it out of the store quickly.

Sherlock looked down at him, a dark shadow crossing over his face. John did not like it here. John was not comfortable here. With Sherlock. He nodded silently and began looking through the suits. It was no surprise that John did not like being here. This place was posh and uptight. Sherlock never particularly cared being here, either, he simply appreciated the styles. It was why he normally got his clothing personally made for him at a small shop just outside of London. He would have done the same for John, but... this was what couples did. Shopped for clothing. Right? He'd seen it a million times. Sherlock knew John wasn't exactly comfortable with being around Sherlock in places like this. No one was. Sherlock tended to embarrass people because he refused to comply. He refused to bend down and act like everyone thought he should. He did not blame John for being like everyone else in this aspect. 'Here,' he said, picking up a dark grey suit. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers thoughtfully. Wool. Light. Comfortable. Looked posh, but not overly so. Yes, John would look nice in this. 'This one.' He turned to look at his soldier and held the suit out to him. 'You'll look very nice in it.'

"Yes, that's fine." John barely looked at the suit. He glanced about for a dressing room, then kicked himself mentally. "Oh.. they fit them to me, don't they?" he asked lamely, and sighed. He was not keen on having stuffy, elderly chap measuring his inseam with Sherlock present. One smoldering look from those icicle eyes, and John would be sporting a massive erection that was sure to interfere with proper measurements. "Can't we just.. pick one out and have it measured later?"

'I had planned on bringing you and the suit to the shop I go to for my clothing.' Sherlock said quietly. '20 minutes away by cab.' The detective shifted his weight from one leg to the other. 'If you don't mind.'

John nearly groaned in his relief. "No, that's.. um.." he coughed a little. "That's a good idea." He glanced at the jumpers he held in his arms, and lifted his eyebrows at the taller man. "Do... you need me to try these on?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up. 'Yes! Ahh, yes, that would be fine.' He coughed a little and turned around. 'This way. You can try them on over here.' Sherlock hurried off, not wanting John to see the flush creeping over his face. He was too excited for this. It wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to derive this much enjoyment over something so small, so ordinary.

John grinned at his back. Sherlock was fairly bouncing on the balls of his feet as he darted to a nearby dressing room, his eyes glowing with excitement. He was actually enthused about this! John chuckled, watching in admiration as the lean figure weaved in and out of the clothing, tall, graceful, beautiful. At that moment, John ceased worrying about their audience, about the upscale atmosphere, about the raised eyebrows and the whispers. Sherlock was a bit manic, yes, and John... well, John was an unlikely customer to say the least. His walk, talk, and mannerisms screamed "blue collar." But... he lifted his chin, marching along behind, very, very proud to be trying on cashmere cardigans for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock wanted a show? John would give him one.

Sherlock sat on a cream leather divan just outside a private dressing room, waiting for John to try on the jumpers. His foot tapped the glassy floor and he threw an arm around the back of the seat, reclining comfortably, one leg crossed over the other. Waiting. He could hear John puttering about inside and a lazy smile slid over his face. Sherlock couldn't wait to see John in his clothing. Of course, had it been up to the detective, he'd have picked out at least 30 more items. Shoes, shirts, jeans, trousers, jackets... but he knew John would not be able to last as long as Sherlock. Not in this atmosphere.

"Sherlock?" John's voice drifted out from behind the drawn velvet curtain. "Can you do me a favor?"

Sherlock was on his feet in less than two seconds, hovering outside the curtain. 'What do you need?'

John grinned inside the spacious room. There was a small upholstered bench, a lush chair, and a full length mirror in which he now studied himself. He took in the crinkled eyes, the thin, upturned lips, the weathered tan. John flicked his eyes to the curtain. He could see Sherlock's polished shoes just outside. "Can you go grab me a pair of blue jeans? These are looking rather shabby." He snickered in amusement, picturing the stunned look on his lover's face. John was actually _asking_ for additional clothing. "You know what size I wear, right?"

'Of course I know what size you wear.' Sherlock huffed, pocketing his hands and turning around. 'Blue? I'll be right back.' John was asking for more clothes. Sherlock's heart practically leapt with joy. He stalked off to search for a pair of blue jeans. Blue... Sherlock's favourite colour. Selecting a pair of London slim fit jeans, he stopped outside the room and pushed an arm through the curtain, proffering the article of clothing to John. 'Do these suit you?'

John eyed them, and smirked. These were going to be snug. "I'll give them a go." He poked his head out, and blinked up at him with innocent eyes. "Anything else you'd fancy to see me in?"

Sherlock looked at John's disembodied head and felt the colour rise to his cheeks again. 'Well...' he mumbled poking the inside of a cheek with his tongue. 'There were... a few things, but this should be fine for now.'

"Cheers then." John popped back in, and bit his lip to stifle a giggle. He shed his trousers, pulling the jeans on and sucking in his breath a little to zip them. Sherlock had gotten a half size smaller than John would have, but... He turned, surveying himself in the mirror, and he found himself mesmerized by his own reflection. They did make his bum look good. He pulled his arms through the jumper, straightening it, trying to ignore the glaring price tag. John pushed the curtain aside, almost shyly, and he shuffled out. Sherlock was waiting on the divan, looking bored. John cleared his throat. "Um.. well?"

As John walked self-consciously out of the dressing room, Sherlock leapt to his feet. He circled around John, his hands in his pockets. 'You look...' Sherlock leaned in close to John's ear, his lips almost brushing the soft skin, 'sexy.' He did, too. Sherlock was very appreciative of the way the dark blue of the jumper complimented John's tanned skin, the way the jeans hugged his muscular legs and perfectly formed arse. It was all Sherlock could do to resist sliding his arms around John's waist and snogging him soundly. John looked like... he looked perfect. Sherlock felt his blood rise. John had promised him a fuck earlier that morning. Bloody hell, that wasn't something he should be thinking of right now. Not here. Not... _ohh_, but getting shagged by John in those clothes... _fuck._ Sherlock could feel himself getting aroused. Damn it all, but John did look gorgeous. Sherlock could think of nothing he'd rather do right now than get fucked in the arse by John.

John shivered a little as Sherlock prowled about him, his eyes scanning every inch of his body, his lips teasing him as he whispered sweet, lovely, sensual things. He swallowed thickly, turning once more to glance at himself in the looking glass. Sherlock was right... it was complimentary. Masculine. Comfortable, and very... him. John's eyes met Sherlock's in the mirror, and he took a shaky breath. Sherlock, of course, looked perfect as always. John licked his lips, shamelessly and hungrily admiring the slope of his neck, the hard planes of his chest, the hollow of his stomach... his crotch. John flushed bright red. Sherlock was half hard. He panted softly as Sherlock sidled closer, slipping in behind him and nudging the small of his back with his partial erection. "Sh... Sherlock... hnn. Um.." John was swiftly losing his ability to speak clearly. "Did you want me... to, ahh, try on anything else?"

Sherlock's fingers danced on John's back, down his sides and along his abdomen. He had one more thing he'd like John to try on... Sherlock smirked. 'Maybe...' he breathed into John's neck, 'if you're up to it.' One of his legs slid between John's, almost without Sherlock realizing it. 'You look devilish, John, I wouldn't mind if you ate. Me. Up.'

John couldn't help it. He arched back, his head falling on Sherlock's shoulder, his legs widening to accommodate his lover's thigh, and he whimpered as those long, slender, wicked hands danced down his torso, sliding just beneath his waist band. He jolted as Sherlock's fingers deftly popped the button there, and John caught his breath, turning his face to graze warm, dry lips on his collarbone. "Yes," he whispered softly, alarm bells ringing in his head. They were in fucking _BURBERRY'S_ for fuck's sake! But he found himself wheeling about just the same, eyes darting, looking frantically for a sales person. One young man stood close by, occupied with an elderly woman who reeked of money. John groaned his relief. "Come on." He tugged Sherlock's sleeve, hastening back to the dressing room, his heart pounding.

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled behind the velvet curtain and into a heated kiss. His hands roamed John's back as John pushed him against the far wall. The detective moaned into John's lips, once more thrusting a leg between his lover's. 'Fuck,' he whispered, 'you're so damn sexy.' Even Sherlock knew this was not the right sort of place to shag, but that only made it more exciting.

John growled into Sherlock's mouth, heat flooding his face and neck, and he grabbed at those thin wrists, yanking them up over Sherlock's head and holding them against the wall as he thrust his body flush against him. "YOU'RE fucking sexy," he ground out, rocking his hips into Sherlock's with force. Sherlock mewled, and John secured his wrists with one hand, bringing the other to clap over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up," he whispered fiercely. "You want it? You have to keep quiet, understand?"

Sherlock nodded vigorously, breathing heavily through his nose as John's calloused hand tightened around his mouth. _Silent?_ He would do anything John wanted if it meant a quick, rough fuck. Sherlock loved it when John was rough. He knew that it was supposed to be wrong. Ordinary people didn't get off on being told to "shut the fuck up". But Sherlock wasn't ordinary. There was nothing wrong with him. No. Ordinary people couldn't comprehend the fullness that being ravaged by John Watson brought about. Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed into the wall. John's hand tightened painfully around his wrists, his other hand still clapped against Sherlock's lips. Those hips were thrusting into his with maddening force and precision. His heart was racing, all the blood had drained to his groin. Sherlock's cock was straining against the linen silk blend of his tight trousers, it hurt.

John shuddered from head to toe as he bit back the snarls and groans that wanted so desperately to come ripping from his chest. He panted, eyes darkening as he registered Sherlock's full submission, and he grabbed him swiftly, pushing him to his knees and unzipping his jeans with trembling hands. "Suck it," he hissed, snatching a handful of Sherlock's curls and pulling them none too gently to the hardening flesh between his legs. John looked down at it, his breath fast and heavy. Fuck. Fuck, even he could see how fucking gorgeous his cock was. It was throbbing and shiny and swollen, brown and red and begging for Sherlock. He pet it softly, watching with lidded eyes as Sherlock gasped, that wet mouth falling open. John moaned very quietly. "Mmm, hell yeah, you want it, don't you? You can't wait 'til it's deep in your arse, can you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, not saying a word. John was right, he couldn't wait until it was inside him, until it was fucking him and making him want to scream. But he mustn't speak. He couldn't say a word. Instead he brought his hands up, pushing away John's and grasping the hard shaft. With one deep, passionate look up, Sherlock leaned forward and licked. He wanted to moan, to tell John how fucking good it felt to suck his cock, how good it felt to be so thoroughly dominated, but he didn't. Letting his mouth fall open as wide as it could, he took the length fully in, licking around it, biting and nipping. Nearly letting out a groan, he let one hand rest on John's hips. Fuck. Fuck_. So good_.

John threw his head back, strangling out a choking cry, muffled by his own lips, and he began to cant forward, eyes shut tight as he bucked into Sherlock's mouth, sensation snaking out from his groin into every other part of his body. The pleasure uncoiled, reaching its tentacles into his extremities, into his stomach and his thighs, and he tightened his grip in Sherlock's hair, snapping his hips back and forth, fast and hard. "Shit!" he whimpered, jolting as his cock head slammed the back of his lover's throat. "Shiiiit, Sherlock! Fuck! Fuck, you're so fucking gooood at this... ahhh... oh fuck.."

Sherlock gagged a little as John's fingers pulled the hair on his scalp, as his cock slammed into Sherlock's throat. A sense of satisfaction settled deep in the detective's breast. He was good at this, he knew it. He was good at making John go crazy. John could not stay silent when Sherlock was involved. For a few moments Sherlock was tempted to use his hands to speak. To sign how fucking fantastic John was. Sign how much Sherlock loved him. But he knew that John would not understand. He did not know sign language; he would not comprehend what Sherlock was trying to say to him. All Sherlock could do was pull John even closer. One of his hands slipped down and he began to palm himself. It was too much. He couldn't help it. His erection hurt so damn much. It was all Sherlock could do to keep his fingers from unhooking the button and sliding his hand in to give his cock some relief.

John pulled out immediately, pushing Sherlock's forehead back until his mouth let go of his cock with a lovely suction noise, and he grabbed his chin. "Don't you touch it until I say so," he commanded lowly, swooping down to bruise his lips with his own. "Sherlock," he breathed against his mouth, tongue tracing every inch of the whining cavern, "I've had a helluva lot of blow jobs. A helluva lot. More women than you can imagine. But baby, your mouth is the most wicked thing in the fucking universe." John bit his lower lip, slowly, increasing in pressure gradually until his lover was squirming beneath him. "Fuck yes," he hissed, one rough hand reaching down to grip Sherlock's rock hard shaft beneath linen trousers. "You're so eager, you want my cock so bad.. you'll take it any way you can get it.. up the arse... in your mouth... you fucking love my cock, don't you?" John waited, and when Sherlock only moaned, he leaned down, lapping at his curved ear. "You can speak," he breathed. "Just this once. Answer the question. Keep it the fuck down."

'Yes, I fucking love your cock.' He whispered, shifting his head so that John had easier access. 'I would take your cock anyway you wanted me to so long as I got it.' It was true. Sherlock would suck John off, would accept his cock any time of the day. He would let John shag him without a second thought. Sherlock let out a tiny whine as John's fingers massaged his cock a little too hard. John was being so rough, so commanding. Sherlock wanted more. He bucked into John's hand, throwing his arms around John's waist. He loved this sick fuck of a man. Loved him so much.

John was caught off guard. The simple gesture, the sweet, almost innocent action, staggered him. Sherlock's face was buried in his stomach, and John knelt, lifting his chin with one finger, the other hand loosening his squeezing hold on Sherlock's dick. "Sherlock..." John said softly. He leaned his forehead onto the detective's, and he sighed. _Well, shit_. John nuzzled his nose gently, and placed a light kiss on pink lips. "Turn around," he instructed, his voice loving, and firm. Sherlock obeyed hastily, his back to John now, and the doctor reached around, fumbling with his trousers, unzipping them, dragging them down creamy thighs. John flushed scarlet. He laughed, shaking his head, and hovered over Sherlock's back, his voice sending the dark hairs on the back of his neck dancing.

"Forget your knickers today, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ducked his head and grinned. He HAD been planning on teasing John with that little bit of information during the ride home, but this was just as good. The sleuth leaned back against John, grinding his arse against the hard cock. He let out a low moan, he couldn't help it. John's cock felt too good. Sherlock wanted to get fucked and fucked and fucked and then fucked some more. Here in the dressing room he saw one tiny little camera in ceiling at the far corner of the room, barely visible against the beige colour. Sherlock was shielded from it for the most part, but John's back was fully visible. Sherlock smiled. He would have to get that footage later. John never need notice.

John's fingers slid into the curls again, and he nudged his knee against Sherlock's naked thighs, guiding him to the round, upholstered bench. Sherlock hasted willingly, resting his elbows on the seat, his legs spreading, buttocks high in the air as he inclined his face to press his cheek against the plush velveteen. John hesitated a moment, as he always did when Sherlock looked like this. It was the prettiest thing in the world, Sherlock, half naked, whimpering, his hair damp with sweat, his body on display. John rocked forward, rubbing his cock insistently between pale, round globes, his thumbs both creeping up to fondle the rosy pucker between. Sherlock gasped, and John watched with fascination and a great deal of satisfaction as Sherlock's long cock jumped at the contact. He smirked. "Fuck, you're so easy, Sherlock," he sang in a barely there murmur. "So fucking easy." And then John pushed in, slowly, his thumbs stretching him just enough to slide in past the tight ring. He knew Sherlock wouldn't mind the pain. Fuck. _He_ never minded the pain, either. It made him feel alive. Devoured. Ravaged. Wanted.

Sherlock bit down hard on his forearm as John slowly pushed inside of him. Little bursts of pain were exploding in Sherlock's brain. He could not scream out. He could not make a sound. He was easy, but only for John. His arm began to protest as his jaw tightened around the jacket. One good thing about still having half his clothes on was that he could not break skin with the padding his shirt and jacket provided. Sherlock's thought process was shattered suddenly when John began to move. Slowly, steadily, John rocked forward, picking up speed as the momentum increased. For his part, Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed back into John's cock. He felt a strong hand on the back of his neck, forcing his head into the padded bench. Sherlock let out a muffled moan, his other arm covering the top of his head, tangling in his hair. Fuck. He wanted to cry out, but he couldn't. Sherlock did not know how to express himself without words. He'd never had this problem before. The detective always had his words to protect him, to aid him, but now... he felt bare and vulnerable without the use of his tongue. Only for John.

SHIT... _Shit shit shit_... John bit his tongue, occasionally letting out a choke or a grunt as he began to ride Sherlock's tight arse, his cock driving in and out faster and harder until he was fucking him wildly, and he was barely able to remain coherent enough to prevent their skin from slapping loudly with every aggressive plunge. This prevented him from slamming in all the way, and John whined in frustration, his hands clenching and unclenching on Sherlock's head, on his hip. He collapsed forward, pressing frantic kisses to his neck, his back, and John shivered, reaching one hand around to slide beneath Sherlock's damned snug shirt. He began to twist and pinch his nipples, the rocking dissolving into a mad thrust. "Hnngghh, oh fuuuuck... Shit... Sherlock... oh oh shit, I don't think... I dont think I can... HAHH! FUCK! I can't.. keep quiet!" John was no longer whispering. His voice had risen, and their fucking was fast becoming uncontrolled... and noisy.

Sherlock let out a low laugh against arm. John could never keep his vocals down, not even when he was the one doing the penetrating. Sherlock liked it that way. He liked knowing that John couldn't control himself around him. Just this one thing, this one mad, uncontrolled thing in Sherlock's life. It drove him insane, it made him crave it even more. Everything else he had control over, everything, except for John. Never John. The detective lunged backwards against John, making damn sure the soldier's cock was buried deep within him, the loud sound of their skin slapping against each other echoing in the room. John's fingers ravaged his nipples, scraping down his chest harder than even John meant them to. Sherlock could feel little drops of blood begin to well up in the rivulets made by those fingernails. Hurriedly, Sherlock grabbed at John's hand, pulling it out of his shirt. He did not need John to know. Instead he brought the hand to his lips and kissed the palm, digging his teeth in, making angry red marks on the tanned skin before licking at the fingers. He could hear John growl behind him and he let go of the hand. Turning his head, he looked at John and slowly licked his lips. '_Harder_.'

John lost control. Fuck. The logical, compassionate part of his brain admonished him as he let out a guttural cry, pulling Sherlock from the bench and shoving him down to the floor, his palm pressed tight to his face, keeping it flat against the carpet as John's cock split him open, debauching him furiously, pounding hard, oh, so fucking deep and hard and fast. John's hips were moving so quickly, so violently, that he would not have been able to stop if the entire store were watching them. All he could think of, feel, taste, smell, hear... was Sherlock. Sherlock, crying out his name. Sherlock, wriggling back and spreading his legs and begging for MORE. Sherlock's saliva in his mouth. Sherlock's sweat on his naked thighs. Sherlock... Ohhhhh OH FUCK... John shouted, all reason and precaution thrown to the wind, and he reached down to tug mercilessly on Sherlock's swinging balls, his orgasm blowing through him as he watched himself assault that hole with unrestrained delight. "OHHH FUCK! YES! Yes, yes, Sherlock, you fucking bitch, I'm cumming inside you RIGHT FUCKING NOW! Haahhh!" John arched his back as his cock settled in deep, pulsing once, twice, oh hell, _five effing times_. He gasped and sobbed through it, squeezing those testicles roughly.

Sherlock felt John release inside him, heard him cum, his seed filling the detective, pushing up against the walls of flesh. 'Johnnnn..' he moaned as John's hand tightened around his balls, as his lover's other hand kept his face pressed against the floor. Fuck. It was too much for Sherlock. He felt that familiar coiling of pleasure and writhed back against John, his breath escaping him in shudders. 'Touch me, John.' He begged, his voice barely above a whisper. He needed release. The cum was slowly beginning to seep out around John's cock, still buried deep within Sherlock's arse. 'Please.' Sherlock couldn't move his arms, they were lying flat against the floor, splayed in an awkward position. John effectively had him trapped. And Sherlock _loved_ it.

John's cheeks were flushed, his neck heated, his entire body on edge from the force of his climax. He stared down at Sherlock, at the uncomfortable position in which that angular body was twisted, at the white thighs, now sticky with John's leaking cum, at the tremor of his skin. John smiled wickedly. "No," he murmured softly, and shuddered as he felt Sherlock's disbelieving whine. "No, I don't think I will," he grinned, and slid his cock out, licking his lips at the shine on it. Sherlock thrashed a little, low, plaintive bleats falling from his lips, but John hushed them effectively, sliding four fingers into his hole swiftly, the semen slicking them and making the passage easy. "Mmmm, how's that?" he asked with a little laugh as Sherlock writhed, rocking back, impaling himself on John's thick, brown digits.

Sherlock did his best to nod, his heart beating wildly. Oh yes, it felt good. He pushed against John's fingers harder and harder with each thrust. Sherlock had no idea why John was being so cruel, so fucking mean, but Sherlock loved it. His lover had a cruel streak in him that no one but Sherlock knew about. It was one of the things Sherlock loved best about John. Everyone thought John was a mild mannered bloke, a nice, genial guy. Ordinary, normal. What a laugh. John was none of those things. John was a wild, angry, sexy, extraordinary god of a man. But only Sherlock knew. He let out a strangled little gasp as John wiggled the fingers around, pushing in a little farther. 'Fuck,' he breathed before he could stop himself. With a silent snarl, he bit down on his lip. Sherlock could not speak. He would not speak. He feel John smile, the detective did not need to see his lover's face to know what expression he wore, and it made Sherlock want to rip into him. That satisfied grin, the one John wore when he knew he was in charge. When He knew he had won. Sherlock thrashed underneath John, starting to struggle but then stopped, gasping, his eyes widening. John and his wicked, wicked hand. 'Haaaa...'

"That's riiiightt," John cooed, and four fingers from the other hand joined these. They stretched him, fingertips delving, exploring the satin walls, and John began to inhale and exhale rapidly as Sherlock's arse relaxed, opened up, elastic and delicious, and he could not resist. _Fuck_, no. He could not resist the temptation offered up to him. With all of the fingers, pulling him apart and nudging his prostate over and over, John dove down, sliding his tongue inside, all around the rim, flicking it, laving it, fucking him with it. John moaned, his head spinning from the overload of sensation. Sherlock tasted so FUCKING good.

That was it. Sherlock's brain exploded, he could not keep himself quiet any longer. John was tongue fucking him. Sherlock had done it so many times to his lover, so many times, and yet John had never once shown any inclination to return the favour. Sherlock had never minded, no, he hadn't ever expected or thought John would do it. But now... 'AHhh! Fuck! OH!' He rocked back against John's slick tongue, against the eight fingers playing his insides like a piano. 'John! Johnnnnnn!' He whimpered, moaning and whining and writhing. It felt good. More than good, it felt more than... Sherlock could feel himself getting closer and closer. The orgasm was winding up inside him until... 'FUCK!' He was cumming in thick spurts, all over the dressing room floor, over and over, continuing to rock back into John's mouth as his lover's tongue made him turn into a pile of mush. John Watson was a wicked man.

John shuddered violently as the muscles clenched around his tongue, his mouth, and he snarled, turning to sink his teeth hard into Sherlock's buttock. The tall man ejaculated again and again, and as his lover finally sagged onto the floor, John gathered him in his arms, pulling him to his chest and raining kisses on his face, every spare inch of skin he could find. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... I love you, I love you so fucking much."

Sherlock let himself be coddled, he let John hold him close and smother him with kisses. It was odd. His chest hurt. John had never, never done this to him. Sherlock relaxed completely into his lover and closed his eyes. A vague memory of someone doing something similar to this a very long time ago. Holding him close and comforting him, pressing soft kisses to his forehead. Sherlock's throat caught. He opened his mouth to return the words, to tell John how much he loved him, too, but he could not. Instead he put an arm around John's neck and nestled his head into the crook. He let out a long breath and his eyes fluttered open and close. John's arms held him close. And that was all Sherlock really needed. John loving him.

They sat for a long time, resting in warm repose, until John's nose wrinkled, and he sighed, leaning his cheek on Sherlock's with a reluctant pout. "We... we have to get out of here, Sherlock. Someone will have heard that."

'Yes.' Sherlock groaned and pushed away from John, grabbing at his trousers. 'Let's get out of here.' He stood up and pulled the pants up, buttoning and zipping them before holding a hand out to help John up. His arse hurt like hell and he would need to make sure the nail marks didn't get infected, but he was happy. The only remorse he felt was that the blood would leave a stain, and he really did love this particular shirt. At least the jacket would hide it. 'Let's get home. I'm starving.'

John wavered a moment, his head ducking, the familiar feeling of remorse washing over him. He turned his face away, and disrobed, pulling on his old clothes, his nose beginning to flush, his eyes prickling. He didn't say anything... they'd been through this before. Sherlock never accepted his apologies. But John wanted to say it anyway. He was bloody sorry. He always was, every single time he took him like this. John's throat was swollen, and he brushed a hand over his face, sniffing. "Yeah. Let's go home."

Sherlock slid arms around John's waist and leaned his head against those bowed shoulders. 'Don't worry,' he murmured, 'it's alright. I'm good. Better than good. And when we get home we'll order take away and have a long, hot bath.' He heard John swallow thickly and he kissed his lover's neck. 'And we'll sleep in on Sunday, just lying there in our bed. I love you, John.'

"I know you do," he rasped back, a jagged sob in his chest. "I don't know why, Sherlock. I don't. I know your reasons, I know what you've said, but I don't bloody know _WHY_." John turned to face him, smiling up at his lover through his guilt, through his exhaustion. It was fucking _exhausting_ making love to Sherlock Holmes. "But I don't care, either. Take me home." John stood on his toes, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, and he kissed him, slowly, sweetly, hungrily. He didn't care why anymore. He just wanted to be loved like this for the rest of his days.

Sherlock kissed him back and then gathered up the clothes. He held them in one arm and with his empty one hugged John around the shoulder, holding him close. 'You do look good in these clothes.'

John beamed. "I'll wear them for you after the bath if you like."

'Yes please.' Sherlock grinned and let his arm fall to his side. 'Come on, let me get these paid for so we can get home.'

John slid past him, pushing the velvet curtain aside with a mischievous smile. "You pay. I am making a break for the cab."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I had every intention of paying,' he grumbled as John bolted through the store. The detective shook his head and snorted.

John tossed him one last glance over his shoulder, and Sherlock's eyes were boring into his. He felt a shudder pass through him, and as he pushed out onto the street, the sounds and smells of London breaking in on his senses, John took a deep breath, his heart full to bursting. Home... bath... take-out...

Sherlock.

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><p>Now, don't you love us? We COULD have just split this up into TWO chapters but we didn't because we are nice. So why don't you show us the love by giving us some amazing reviews! *is shot dead*<p>

No, I'm not really that pompous, just tired... Or... um, YES. I AM A PRAT.. Because clearly no one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time. _

Seriously, though, your reviews make Calabash and I want to write more and more and more and more and more! Keep 'em coming and we'll love you all!


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